Signature of an Old Friendship
by Morganna Faye
Summary: (Set after the events of 7x18) Rumple has made a mistake and betrayed Regina, leaving them both devastated. After a conversation with Rogers and a phone call from Zelena, Rumple decides to reach out to his old friend and try to fix things.


"Oh, hey! Roni!" Henry is strolling down the street, a grocery bag slung over his shoulder, devouring a chocolate frosted doughnut with four greedy bites, the frosting crumbling down his chin. Just as the police station comes in sight, a woman leaves the building, her steps wavering and her knees buckling until she is almost tumbling down the stairs. Roni reaches out for the wall, gripping it tight until her fingers are almost white, and Henry hurries his steps, wiping his fingers on his jeans.

"Hey, what's going on?" he asks, slumping the bag down beside him. Roni opens her eyes and squints against the reddish evening sunlight, finally noticing him. Henry startles a bit at her bloodshot eyes and cheeks streaked with dried tears, her hand covering her mouth like she's trying to contain a sob. Strangely, something in her eyes loosens at the sight of him; it's relief and pure desperation at the same time, and Henry can't remember seeing anything quite as heartbreaking as that.

Roni pushes herself off the wall she'd been leaning on too heavily, straightening her jacket as she greets him, her voice thick. "Henry," she says simply, almost choking on the word. She looks away, the half of her face that isn't turned to him dipping into the shadows. When she faces him again, her lips are forced into a smile, only her eyes retaining their softness. "It's… I'm fine."

"What happened?" Henry asks, not bothering to respond to her obvious lie. He frowns slightly because it feels curious that he can perceive her deflection as well as he knows he can, but after what Rogers had just told him, and what he in return had just told Jacinda, it seems trivial enough for him to shrug it off.

Roni sighs, her left hand still on the wall, and she looks almost small in her sorrow. She attempts another smile, but it turns into a grimace that slides off her face. She lifts her right hand, brushing water from her eyes with her sleeve. "Something of an… old friendship… just ended?" she admits, every word sounding like a question, terms that don't entirely fit what she's trying to explain. There's a short silence in which Roni frowns in thought, as if considering to add something, but then she shrugs dismissively like it would all sound ridiculous and doesn't even matter, anyway. Henry doesn't buy it for a second.

He holds her eyes, and there's a moment of recognition deep inside of him that matches his odd feeling earlier. But in a flash, it's gone, and all that's left is an awkward pause.

"You're crying again," he notes helplessly, almost reluctantly, and she tears her gaze away from him, drawing a sharp breath. The pain on her face is so bright and visible that Henry's eyes almost well up with tears, too.

"I… didn't know you had friends in the police department," he remarks for lack of words that actually mean something, and cringes instantly, because Roni takes her hand off the wall and straightens her back, her expression shifting into an undecipherable mask. She smiles, oddly, without thought.

"I don't," she declares, buries her hands in her pockets, and nods her head at Henry. She walks away from him and the building, then, her head held high in a never-ending struggle not to look back.

* * *

"Weaver! You need to look at—" Rogers steps through the, strangely, open door, tearing through the paper stack in his arms. He knows that Weaver is in here, just as he is aware that he'd been told never to interrupt him when he is. This is important enough for him to break that rule, though—and it's a perfect opportunity to check on the older detective. Rogers doesn't bother to look up as he calls again. "Weaver! You won't believe what I found."

As no response comes, Rogers finally glances up. The scene in front of him shocks him enough to drop the papers featuring Nick's mysterious murder.

Weaver is hunched on a chair just by the open door, his bowed head dropped in his hands. He's sunk in himself like Rogers has never seen anyone before, his fingers tense and shaking. He steps closer quietly so as not to startle him, and remains standing in front of the older detective, waiting to be noticed.

Weaver lifts his head tiredly, and the second wave of shock overcomes Rogers; the older man's cheeks are wet, his eyes somehow faded, blinking against the artificial light. He looks as old as time at that moment, centuries written into the lines on his face.

"What… what happened?" Rogers inquires with a worried frown. They're partners, and the detective has a much bigger heart than his tough facade lets usually show. It's why, yes, Rogers is concerned about him, because Weaver is a constant in the police department, one that no one can remember meeting for the first time, one that seems like he's always just been there, shadowing over everything and everyone and solving the hardest cases without ever appearing to use the same method twice.

Weaver doesn't smile; his expression doesn't change at all, and he makes no move to rise from the metal chair. When he sighs at the sight of a fidgeting Rogers, it's like the tension slowly drains from the room, leaving behind two men and some unknown event that has made one of them look so defeated.

Weaver bares his teeth at Rogers. "You're not as good at following orders as you like to pretend, are you? Whatever you feel the need to discuss; consider returning tomorrow. I'm done here for today."

"Is it a personal thing?" Rogers frowns, looking for a chair to seat himself, but finding none close enough for him to get to subtly. "Do you actually have any friends outside of work?" It's said without malice, and Weaver knows it, his voice oddly distant as he looks away exasperatedly. "Get lost, detective."

Rogers finally spots a folding chair in a corner, pushing it closer. Tilly is out with that cute new friend of hers—his heart actually warms at the thought of this—so he might as well find out what's bothering his colleague today. "I can pretend not to listen if you want to talk about it."

Weaver snorts weakly. "That seems fairly illogical." Still, he continues, his voice disconcertingly quiet and strained. "I crossed a line today," he explains flatly, averting Rogers' prying eyes like it really does help to pretend that no one is hearing him. Finally, Weaver's lips turn upward, but it's a dry grimace that fits with his face like it's been used for centuries. "One I've ignored a million times before, but neither of us can, anymore." Rogers desperately craves to question the 'us,' but he's playing the role of an invisible listener, and if this will work, he needs to stick with that. "There was too much at stake this time. Something—someone irreplaceable." Weaver's eyes are dipped in sadness and something that looks a hell lot like resigned remorse. He cracks that colorless smile again. "I broke my oldest… friendship? Today. That I never thought too valuable but have always known to be."

"A friendship?" Rogers ponders, already much too curious to muster more silence. "Is that why Roni walked out of here a couple of minutes ago?" He chuckles, scratching his head. "She was about as far from herself as you are right now. I don't think she even noticed me." He shakes his head to himself, ignorant of Weaver's leaning forward in his seat with an almost scared expression. "There was this odd sound, and it was like crying, you know? But it's Roni so it couldn't be, right? Then again, you are, too."

"I'm not weeping like a flustered newborn," Weaver snaps through his teeth without spite, his hands coming up to his cheeks in an almost instinctive motion. He stares at the water on the tips of his fingers as though it comes straight from hell and heaven likewise.

"I was right, then, this morning," Rogers remarks, observing the older detective intently. "You were scared."

"I was stupid," Weaver corrects, closing his eyes and shaking his head like maybe they are both equally right. "I made a mistake, and it's one that can't be undone."

Rogers nods like he understands, all the while trying to keep up with the conversation, eager not to snap Weaver out of the haze that apparently allows him to speak as freely to his companion as he is. "You and Roni… were a thing?"

The older detective looks almost bemused for a second, before he recoils, massaging his temple as if trying to stave off a massive headache. "Not like that," he disclaims like it's a painfully absurd suggestion, before his face contorts into something like shuddering disgust. "That one time didn't count; it was a short power play and diversion, and it wasn't the same… version… of her, anyway."

For the sake of his sanity—that thing he's rapidly starting to question on Weaver—Rogers chooses to let that slide, going back to what he thinks to be the core of the older detective's peculiar behavior. "But that… friendship, it meant something to you," he offers carefully, like he has any idea of what he's talking about.

Weaver nods almost imperceptibly, the thin tear streaks still evident on his face, and his expression so close to true heartbreak that it's almost frightening. "I suppose it did," he breathes, in a way that makes it seem like such a world-crushing admission. "There's nothing to be said there, though; neither of us ever were particularly good at forgiving." He chuckles like it's an inside joke only he—and maybe Roni—gets, but it's worlds apart from funny and Weaver turns his head away, blinking.

"You could still try to fix it," Rogers suggests. "Have a conversation, perhaps, like adults."

Weaver laughs out loud, and it feels mad. "No, no," his voice rises to a frighteningly high pitch, and there's something impish about it that causes goose bumps to creep across Rogers' arms. Then the detective drops to his usual tone, pinched with fragile sadness.

"No, no. It's not what we do."

* * *

Rumple gets a call from Zelena that next day, right in the middle of a minor investigation that he had dived into head first, all the while avoiding the phrase 'drowning oneself in work,' and doing exactly that.

She doesn't bother to utter a greeting, shushing her laughing fiancé with what sounds awfully like a kiss, and he almost considers hanging up on her—before he reminds himself that she likely loathes talking to him just as much as he does, and he's already certain who paid who to do what in that amateur case of his, anyway.

They begin their usual banter, him inquiring caustically how she's enjoying San Francisco, her mocking him about something like his dull work or his clothes, which he doesn't pay any attention to. Their conversation seems to jump to a start when Zelena's voice becomes serious, but all she does is ask about the daughter she already texts at least once a day. Rumple provides her with what Rogers had reported him—Tilly and Margot's date had gone well if a little dramatic, but they'd called it a night knowing much more about each other than before—just because he's too weary to be spiteful.

The cue that startles his mind back to the conversation is Regina's name. Zelena on the other end of the line asks Chad to leave for a moment so as not to destroy the peace of their vacation from Hyperion Height's current insanity, before her voice drops to a frantic whisper. She entrusts Rumple—with slight traces of sarcasm at how absurdly protective she's become—that she'd been trying to reach her sister since yesterday, if only to casually check on her and the state of Henry's magic cure.

Rumple closes his eyes, then, taking a moment to keep all emotion out of his voice. He assures Zelena that Regina must be all right—that he'd talked to her just yesterday and phones have never been the most reliable device for contacting her, anyway.

He adds that he doesn't actually care much, though, just to maintain his facade in front of Zelena; but all she does is laugh and snort at once and tell him that, as much as Zelena and he don't care a wee bit about each other, anymore, her sister is another case entirely.

She manages to throw him off guard enough to force a promise out of him to look after Regina as long as anyone else her sister could turn to is out of town or cursed (they both agree, for once, that Facilier isn't near trustworthy enough to be confided in.)

He winces at Zelena's blunt notion, because it's true for him and Regina likewise, and now that their partnership is blown off for good, they're both alone at this game once again.

He regrets the promise he's made to Zelena the second it's out in the air.

He doesn't believe he'll be keeping it; a promise is not a deal.

Neither helpful conversations nor concern are Regina and his ways, after all.

* * *

The cool evening had crept up on him too fast, and Rumple strides out of the police station with his hands buried deep in his pockets, inhaling the fresh air without joy.

A young woman wearing a hideous yellow jacket taps him on the shoulder from behind. He turns around, his face set into a displeased frown that doesn't change when he looks into her face and finds absolutely nothing recognizable.

She grins widely at him, pushing back a few strands of hair under her headscarf. "Hey," she greets, "I've seen you talking to Roni behind the counter a few times, and I was wondering, do you know why the bar's been closed since yesterday? There's no sign out or anything. Just closed." She fiddles with the seam of her sleeve. "My girlfriend and I, we like to come there to—" her voice finally dies down at his death glare. "Just wanted to know if you've got any information."

"As a matter of fact, I have no inside sources in that bar anymore," Rumple replies harshly.

The girl shrugs. "Thank you, anyway." Then she walks away, rolling her eyes, entwining her hands with her girlfriend's just a few steps away. They exchange whispers and laughter, but Rumple isn't as annoyed as he would normally be.

He conjures the image of his comfortable apartment up in his head, but it's empty and unwelcoming, and it doesn't change the fact that his mind has already made up itself.

It looks like he might be keeping that promise, after all.

Rumple changes directions, turning into the street leading to Roni re-turned Regina's bar.

* * *

The front door is closed, just as that young woman had claimed it to be. Rumple steps close and blinks through the almost non-transparent window that's cut into the entry; it's an odd little detail that somehow reminds him of a pawnbroker long since abandoned, and if he squints against the dim light of the room behind it, he can spot a cracked and forgotten _'Open'-_ sign lying on the floor.

Rumple turns the knob and waits for his lock picking skills to become necessary, but the door swings open with a quiet creak, showing an almost fully darkened room. He sighs, blindly searching for the switch, and when the lights turn on with slight electric crackles, they reveal a person hunched on a stool in front of the bar counter, the amber liquid swirling in her glass reflecting the light bulbs in small bright quarters.

Regina doesn't turn when the door clicks shut noisily in the heavy stillness, but he does see her flinch and is astonished by the slight pang of guilt he feels at intruding her space without warning. Oh, but it's decades too late for that and fades quickly. He hadn't even thought to knock; doesn't, as she'd pointed out before, ever consider giving her that kind of privacy even when she so desperately needs it. It's not the best start to a fruitful conversation, but he imagines that it's going to get a lot more unpleasant either way.

Rumple steps closer, frowning as glass crunches beneath his boots. He sighs one more time; doubts are slithering into his mind with almost lazy ease, rightfully and quite matter-of-factly explaining to him that he'll make all this a lot worse, because there are a great many things that he wouldn't count as within his strengths, and apologizing… well, it's a matter that he only bothers to attempt around a small number of people, and for all Regina and he have been through, she has never been included in that circle.

He stops walking when he's close enough to notice the lack of sleep around Regina's eyes and remains standing there for a second, feeling the sudden and familiar urge to drop off a notion about how what he's done was perfectly justified, only barely suppressing it. It's easier these days because he has something worth trying for, but admitting his wrongdoings to not only himself but also to others has never come without strain.

Regina keeps staring into her glass, swirling and swirling the liquid as though it is a portal to someplace else, someplace less twisted and loaded than they both know this is going to be.

She laughs, then, and it's the first admission that she's noticed his arrival. It's too quiet and too loud in this silent bar room, but it relieves tension rather than creating more so he takes it for what it likely isn't; an invitation, and draws one of the stools closer, dropping himself on it, close enough to Regina but still worlds away.

She finally lifts her eyes from the glass, but only for a second and she's staring away too soon for him to determine her thoughts.

"Did you ever even care about Henry at all?" she inquires, her voice half mad and half on the verge of crying, the alcohol in her hand swirling so furiously that drips of it splash over the rim of the glass, tainting the blank surface of the counter. "You protect children now, Weaver; Lucy, Anastasia, and Robin, and Tilly." Rumple thinks to correct her use of mixed-up cursed personas and prior ones—maybe even the use of his new name, but then again, he has a thousand names and this one feels the safest at the moment—but it's an odd instinct considering everything he's done a day earlier and everything she's said about being through. Maybe, he muses, this isn't so much a healthy conversation as more of a tryout what 'we're through' really means when it's evening and there's liquor and so much heartbreak involved.

"Would you protect him like you did Alice? If Henry weren't mine, would you care about him, then?" Rumple isn't sure how aware she is right now or how many glasses she'd had—he has a strange feeling that this is the first or perhaps the second, not more, and the slight wavering of her voice has another cause entirely—but she's clearly in no state to be pushing him away like she probably should, and he uses it to his advantage like he always does.

He hates what she's saying to him; hates the implications of focused heartlessness and the simplicity of her questions that they both know isn't real.

But he doesn't know an answer to them, either, and he doesn't know why he's here today. Doesn't actually think it will change anything for the better to seek her out like this. What he knows is that he feels a need to try to make amends, an urge to prove her wrong. What he knows is that there's devastation and an empty heaviness over losing his oldest friend like this. What he knows is that not only she is heartbroken over being betrayed, but he is as well over having done exactly that.

What he knows is that his heart clenches in his chest whenever he thinks that he's broken that deep, old, probably unhealthy but reliable when everything else is ending, friendship in a way that can't be repaired.

What he knows is that he matters enough to her to cry over a fatal lack of trust and she matters enough to him to do the same, and to be here now.

In the despairing silence of a closed bar whose light bulbs can't stop the shadows from creeping in and painting the floor a dull color.

Regina sips at her glass, then drowns it with one deep gulp, reaching for the bottle to refill. Her hands are trembling, though; and they both see it, so she retreats her arm and lets it drop on the counter. Her fingers are playing with the empty glass as she speaks, and there's an edge to her voice that drains at his soul.

"Did you even ever care about me at all." It's the question she might, at the moment, believe to be the core of all this, but it's far from one that needs an answer.

It's the question that's swimming in her eyes every time he lets her down (like he always does, she had said, and he holds no delusions, and acknowledges that they're doing this game a lot; but also not all the time) and each time both his and her eyes hold the answer, because they do care, why ever is not important, and it's why this is so hard on both of them.

"You know who I am," he replies without thought, and it's an answer in more ways than one. She knows, and he knows, even as he's struggling to grasp at it.

Regina nods, looking down at her shaking hands, and he can feel the slight tremble of his fingers. The glass falls on the counter with a clink, rolls behind the bar and shatters, the sound of its movements fading into thin air.

She finally turns to face him, tears on her cheeks, of anger but also of plain disappointment, and her shoulders are trembling as she cries silently, like she's long since learned to do.

Rumple has seen her cry, and sometimes it reminds him of when she was young and vulnerable and so damn breakable.

Now she's decades old and tough and still not… broken. Cracked and damaged, perhaps, but he thinks that both of them have survived and both of them have found something to live for. Or, in his case, to die for… but it's something to look forward to, which has simply not always been the case for them.

It is now. And, maybe, they've made themselves into little pieces of the other's heart, too, along the way.

She's still looking in his direction as she smiles humorlessly, asking, "Why are you here?"

Their gazes finally meet and her eyes soften. It's only then that Rumple feels the tears that have begun spilling down his cheeks simultaneously to hers, and crying may often be misused to break, but at this moment, it almost feels like admitting what they'd been taught a weakness (it had been an element of his lessons, too, and they'd since then more often than not exploited each other's tears) might just be an opening.

"I've come to… apologize," he responds, and even as they are both aware that he probably won't be doing that more straight-forwardly than he just has, it's more than they usually give each other. She sharply draws a breath, and then smiles in an almost unnoticeable manner that he briefly considers being uniquely her own—before his mind provides him with an image of her son.

Smiling like… his mother. (The queenly one with dark hair and dark eyes that's sitting right in front of him right now.)

Maybe even smiling like his grandfather. (The one who's let him down horribly but hopefully not fatally.)

And yes, there had been the one thing that can control him in danger, but what's more important is one of the few parent-child relationships in Regina's and Rumple's lives that has… survived. And thrived, and provided meaning.

"Have you, now," she challenges his admission with a spark in her still watery eyes, but it's more of a last assurance that he isn't playing with her than a question waiting to be answered. The tears on her cheeks aren't flowing anymore, but reflecting the light above them. Neither of them bothers to wipe them away—they feel like fresh ink sealing a fragile contract, and she needs that affirmation now, that they are equal in this as they need to be, equally caring for the same cause.

He's about to offer her his hand—hers are folded tightly on the counter, and it feels like a necessity for him to reach out to her for once. She lets him, and they both stare at their fingers, palms up on the wooden surface. She looks him in the eyes one more time with determination, telling him silently better not to screw up again. Because even or maybe especially with all the history between them, if they are too reckless then one day there might be a breaking point that they won't be coming back from.

There was betrayal, and there were words that end.

'We're through,' and he thinks that it's yet to be explored how easily they will actually let go of each other. Their history runs too deep and entangled; maybe it's a curse or maybe it's a blessing, and maybe it doesn't matter.

They can get through it this time, so long as they keep fighting. So long as they remain standing eye to eye, defiant and definitely not always side by side, but remembering what matters.

Rumple promises, "I won't let Henry die."

And doesn't say but means, _'I'll fix this.'_

But, _'I'll need your help.'_

"On anyone's hands. Not even our own," Regina answers, and it's her little curious reminder of affection and of what's most important, and they've been having an entire conversation built on gestures and history and very little voice.

It's what they do.

It's the signature of an old friendship that needs two to rebuild and might just get exactly that.


End file.
